


At the Wheel

by fayedartmouth



Category: CHAOS (TV 2011)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Team Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 06:19:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fayedartmouth/pseuds/fayedartmouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because Carson's a spy.  And spies don't give up the wheel.  Not to rookies.  Not to anyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the Wheel

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Chaos.
> 
> A/N: I wrote this for lena7142. Beta give by postfallen. Set pre series.

Carson's a spy. He's pretty sure he's not a great spy -- getting kicked off three teams and having three accusations of professional misconduct in his file is pretty compelling stuff -- but he is a spy. And spies, even the bad ones, don't like to give up control of the wheel.

Okay, this is especially true of the bad ones. And the wheel is sort of a metaphorical thing, but it's also pretty damn literal sometimes.

Like now.

Carson's got his fingers wrapped so tight around the wheel, he's almost losing feeling in his fingers. The speedometer is inching up and he glances in the rearview mirror.

"I know this may not be the time," Billy ventures from the passenger seat.

"No, it's _not_ the time," Carson grits, pressing down on the pedal harder and gritting his teeth even as the cars in the mirror close in on them.

"I was just going to say that I do have extensive evasive driving experience," Billy offers.

It sounds diplomatic. It might be diplomatic. Except the kid's always trying to say something stupid. He's trying to point out that he's been undercover, that he has assets, that he can flirt his way in and out of things. And he's always got driving advice. Turn here, veer here, try second gear.

Carson knows the kid is trying, but really, he's just trying too hard. The big puppy eyes and overzealous attitude is sort of sweet, but it's not overly useful, especially not for a team like the ODS. Carson has done what he can to keep the kid out of trouble, but sometimes, Billy just needs to shut the hell up.

Like now.

"And in my experience, when you are in the far less superior vehicle, sheer speed is not your best bet," Billy continues helpfully.

Except it's not helpful at all. Because Carson's losing ground and these people are trying to kill them and Billy's trying to bolster his resume.

"Really, if you had let me drive--"

"Shut up!" Carson snaps, jerking the wheel hard as one of the vehicles pulls up next to them. "I'm a little busy here."

Busy trying not to die. He glances ahead and has to swerve to miss a huge rut that would have bottomed them out. He curses, and makes a face.

"I can see that," Billy says, sliding about in the seat. "Which is kind of my point--"

"Well, _my_ point is getting us out of here," Carson seethes, bracing himself as the car next to him rams into them.

The car shimmies and Carson has to use both hands to steady the wheel. 

Billy teeters precariously in the seat, arms in front of him on the dash. "If we had taken the time to pick out a more appropriate car--"

Carson curses again -- this time at Billy. "We didn't have a lot of options!"

"And neither does this!" Billy protests. "Rear wheel drive, no cruise control -- not even a decent radio."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Carson mutters. "You want some tunes for our desperate run for our _lives_ from _gun runners?_ "

"There's not even any seat belts," Billy reminds him. "This car is poorly equipped--"

They're rear ended this time, then rammed, and Carson spits curses loudly over the rushing wind outside the windows. This is not going well. This is really not going well.

Billy's still flopping over in his seat. "Really, I think my driving would impress you--"

Carson jolts the car, ramming the car next to him out of sheer frustration. "Really, huh?" he asks angrily. "That's nice. But you're not driving, kid."

"But my experience--"

"You're a rookie," Carson hisses.

"I served for five years--"

"And then got your ass kicked out," Carson says. "Hate to be the one to tell you this, but that sends you back to square one. You're a rookie, kid. And even if you weren't, you're not driving."

Because Carson's a spy. And spies don't give up the wheel. Not to rookies. Not to anyone.

Spies control their own fate.

Billy is protesting, but Carson's not listening. His eyes zero in and he sees his opportunity. Slamming the brakes, he turns the car hard, yanking with all the might to get them clear of the inevitable collision.

The tires squeal, the tires screech. The car next to him has sped ahead, and the car behind is speeding past him -- just like he planned. Both cars are flailing and out of control, and the one in front turns back just in time to collide with the one coming up behind with a splintering and screeching that lets Carson know he succeeded.

Carson grins, even as his car careens to a stop, spinning frantically in the vast desert highway in Ethiopia. He grips the wheel tight to keep them from flipping and he's almost got it --

And then he sees the other car.

They've crossed the median and traffic isn't much of an issue, but it only takes one car.

Coming right at them.

Carson doesn't loosen his grip, but this time there's nothing he can do as the car crashes into them and sends their car lurching ahead. Carson flails, head slamming forward and everything goes dark.

-o-

The first thing Carson is aware of is sound. Something is thrumming, and it takes him a second to realize it’s his own pulse pounding vigorously in his head. 

He groans and starts to move, but quickly regrets it. The pain sharpens acutely, moving ferociously through his skull and radiating down his neck and through his shoulder blades. He’s hit his head -- and hard.

Gingerly, he opens his eyes, mindful to stay as still as possible. His vision is blurred and limited, but it’s hard to tell how much of that is a concussion and how much is because he’s smashed face first into something hard and black and smelling of plastic and blood.

His blood, no doubt. 

Shifting, he realizes that his fingers are clenched so tight that his hands are locked in place, firmly around something.

The steering wheel.

He could be dead and he’d still be holding fast. That’s Carson, ever the spy.

Ever the control freak. He’s been trying to keep a handle on this mess of a mission from the start. It’s never a fun thing, messing around with gun smugglers. But with signs of a major sale to people with strong anti-US interests, it had been clear something needed to be done. Carson had never been convinced that going undercover was the right answer, but then, that wasn’t his call.

Control.

Or a lack thereof.

And this is where it got him. A blown cover, a failed mission, and a freaking car accident.

Wincing, he opens his eyes wider and tries to sit up. He’s tentative about this. Because if there’s something Carson hates more than being out of control, it’s being in pain. He’s one for creature comforts, if he’s honest, and being in Africa in the first place has got him all riled up. Too many insects; too much sweat. Terrorists running rampant.

And car accidents.

It takes some work -- hell, he almost passes out more than once -- but he manages to sit up. It leaves him panting, though, wheezing through his tight chest and blinking blood out of one of his eyes. For a moment, the pain is pretty powerful stuff and Carson considers the idea that he may be in serious trouble. He thinks about internal injuries and hematomas and his breathing quickens.

And settles down again.

Because yes, he’s hurt. Yes, he probably has a concussion. And okay, there could be internal injuries. But he’s awake and he’s coherent and his vision is gauzy from the blood but things beyond that are actually pretty clear, even if the sunlight outside makes him squint.

He can do this, he tells himself. He’s in control, hands on the metaphorical steering wheel. This outcome isn’t favorable, but beggars can’t be choosers, and Michael and Casey will bitch and moan and still come to his rescue. Besides, this isn’t _all_ his fault. Billy--

Carson’s stomach drops and his breathing hitches. He’d forgotten about the kid -- his heart rate quickens -- and how the hell do you _forget_ about a teammate?

Probably because Billy’s still the new guy. He’s only been on the team for a few months, and Carson hasn’t adjusted his mindset to think in terms of four instead of three. Plus, he’s sort of waiting to see if Billy will wash out. He is an MI6 reject, after all. Carson doesn’t put a ton of stock in second chances, even if the ODS has been his last chance for the last few years now. And probably because Carson drinks a little too much and sleeps a little too heavy and he’s too busy trying to keep himself alive to worry about everyone else.

Really, that’s what it comes down to. Michael’s a paranoid bastard; Malick’s a scary son of a bitch. Carson? He’s a selfish jackass, and he’s never made any qualms about that. Billy’s the overeager puppy, and Carson puts up with him because someone has to, and it sure as hell isn’t going to be Michael or Casey. So Carson’s taken it upon himself to show the kid some tips, offer a few pointers.

Not that it did much good. All Billy did in return was yap about his glory days, trying to remind Carson how he’s somehow experienced in just about _everything._ From flirting to driving, Carson’s about ready to be done with the kid.

Though, not literally. Because Billy’s still his responsibility in this mission, and Carson crashed the damn car and now there’s no sign of Billy.

“Collins?” Carson calls, his voice scratchy as he cranes his head to look around. The seat next to him is empty. The back seat is so small that he doubts Collins could fold himself up back there, not that this is any time for a damn nap. Still he swivels, having to rotate his body to look. “Billy?”

There’s nothing. Just the sound of the engine dying and the wind on the lonely highway.

Carson frowns, looking at the seat again. There’s nothing _there,_ and Carson briefly wonders if the kid is outside trying to talk his way into annoying someone else, but the door’s shut. More than that, that side of the car is bent in on itself. There’s no way Billy could have pushed it open.

Heart pounding, Carson turns his gaze out, watching for signs of movement on the highway.

He looks through the open space where the windshield used to be.

His heart stutters, as the realization dawns with such clarity that he can’t fight it. Billy’s not here. At the rate they’d been moving and without seat belts, the force of the impact jarred them both pretty good. Carson’s throbbing head is testament to that.

But without the steering column to stop him, Billy’s forward momentum hadn’t stopped.

No, Carson closes his eyes. Instead, it took the kid right through the windshield.

So much for control.

-o-

The car is crumpled in on the passenger’s side, so when Carson pushes open his door, it resists just for a moment before swinging open wildly. It’s not easy to get to his feet, and he has to support himself on the doorframe as he puts one foot and then the other on the ground.

For a moment, he’s overtaken by a wave of dizziness that turns his stomach and forces him to squeeze his eyes shut. He breathes fast and heavy out his nose, clenching his jaw tight to hold back the bile that has risen in the back of his throat. It takes longer than he thinks it should, but when he opens his eyes, he’s at least not about to topple over.

Not right away, anyway.

Walking, though, is still a tenuous thing and his first step is stumbling, his knees threatening to give out as he makes his way from the car. He’s on the sandy median now. Squinting, he looks back and gauges the position of his hastily chosen getaway car. The impact must have spun them and sent them skidding, somehow forcing them back the way they came. There are vivid burn marks on the pavement and the earth is torn up.

The car is worse off. It’s mangled, dented and torn open in various spots. It’s hard to place where the initial impact was -- clearly, with the spinning, they endured multiple collisions. At any rate, the car’s totaled. Fortunately, it’s not Carson’s car. It wasn’t even a very nice car when he stole it.

Somehow, that’s not much consolation.

Turning away, he looks down the road for any sign of life. He still wants to believe it’s possible Billy’s going to get help -- the Scot is stupid and frustrating, after all. It’d be like him to try climbing out and flagging down unsuspecting motorists for help. 

Except he’s not there. Up the road, he can see the mangled wreck of the cars that had been pursuing them, but no other obvious signs of life. Behind him, there’s still no sign of Billy, but Carson does see the other car.

It’s a nicer car than the one Carson was driving, and it’s still smoking, crunched and unmoving a dozen yards or so behind him. 

Carson glances down the open stretch of road, and looks back. Billy’s his priority, but whoever this driver is, their fate is sort of Carson’s fault.

Swallowing, he limps back.

“Hey,” he calls out, wincing as his throat twinges. He has to wipe away the blood dripping down his face as he approaches. “You okay in there?”

There’s no answer, so Carson rounds the car, moving toward the driver’s seat. “Hey, buddy, you--”

The words don’t come. They don’t need to come. There’s no sense in asking if the driver is okay, because he’s clearly dead. His body is slumped forward, and the driver’s door is crushed inward, mangling the body. The man’s eyes are vacant and staring.

Carson’s stomach churns again. He swears, and this time he has to drop his head between his knees to breathe frantically, staving off the darkness on the edge of his vision. Collateral damage happens -- and this isn’t _actually_ his fault. They were being chased by gun runners. He had no choice...

But now some innocent person Carson’s never met is dead and he’s stranded in the middle of nowhere and Billy’s still missing.

Lifting his head, he’s still heaving for air, eyes stinging as he tries in vain to clear the blood from his vision again. Control, he thinks. He just wanted control.

And now everything’s a _mess._ People are dead; covers are blown. Teammates are missing.

Carson’s not the most hardworking operative in the world. He credits his survival in part to his laziness. Oftentimes, he’s too inclined to avoid work and conflict, which means he’s usually not going to subject himself to needless peril. But he can be a determined bastard when he wants to be.

When he needs to be.

He needs to be now.

Control. Carson can still grab the wheel, and that’s just what he intends to do.

Teeth gritted together, he starts walking again, moving back toward his own mutilated vehicle. His own injuries are catching up with him a bit, and there’s a nagging pain in his chest and a sharp pang that runs up and down his right leg. Walking isn’t so easy, and every now and then his vision seems to fade out even as he moves forward doggedly.

When he gets to the car, his stomach lurches again, and this time he knows he can’t fight it. He turns away from the vehicle and has the common sense to move all the way across the road. If he’s going to throw up, he’s not going to get nailed by a car doing it. He barely makes it to the shrubbery on the side of the road before he hits his knees and heaves.

The bile burns up his esophagus, and he retches again. The third time, his chest feels like it’s going to explode and his vision goes entirely dark for a long, horrible moment.

When it clears again he’s still on his knees, fingers in the sandy earth. He’s crying, vomit still dripping from his lips as he strains for air.

Lifting his head takes too much work, and Carson’s wondering if this whole control thing is overrated. Instead, he flops onto his back. When the sun blinds him, he lolls his head to the side and looks out across the land. There’s not much to see -- some shrubs and trash--

And a body.

Twisted and bloodied, sprawled brokenly on its back. The face is covered with blood and there’s red pooling on the ground even as the lifeless features are turned toward Carson in unconsciousness.

It takes him a minute -- Carson’s concussed and exhausted, so it may take him more than a minute -- but finally he recognizes the body.  
 _  
Billy.  
_  
-o-

At first, Carson wants to heave again. He wants to throw up everything in his stomach and turn his insides out. He wants to fist his hands into the dirt and pound the ground until his hands are bloody. He wants to wail until his voice gives out and cry until there’s no tears left.

That’s what he wants to do.

But if Carson did what he wanted to do, he’d have cut and run out on the spy game long ago and he’d be sitting on a beach in the Caribbean, sipping drinks with his toes buried in the sand.

See, Carson’s a spy. He _wants_ a lot of things, but too many of those things require him to give up control. On a beach, he’d be pretty damn comfortable, but he’d also be totally out of the loop. It sucks, but it’s true, and Carson’s damned if he does and damned if he doesn’t.

So he doesn’t hurl and he doesn’t cry or any of that crap. Instead, he staggers back to his feet and makes his way to Billy.

The kid looks worse the closer he gets, which seems sort of impressive since Carson had thought he looked dead from first glance. He’s on his back, but his legs are bent at odd angles, one clearly broken. His arms are equally flailed about, and it looks sort of like his wrist is bending at the opposite angle that it should.

And that’s not even the bad part.

The bad part is the tear in Billy’s scalp, leaving a flap of hair pulled away. His nose is clearly broken and there’s a slice that runs along his hairline, almost severing his ear. There’s blood everywhere -- nose, mouth, chin, ears, eyes -- and it’s so copious that Carson can’t tell what’s actually bleeding and what’s just being soaked by the rest.

Of course, his torso isn’t much better. The worst is the bloody gouge, running jaggedly along his side. But his shirt is shredded in places, his pants frayed from what looks like impact. His shoulder looks a little like ground beef and there’s a slice up his calf that is weeping continuously.

That’s just what Carson can see. Of course, maybe Billy’s lucky and escaped internal injuries, but when Carson looks at the kid, lucky isn’t the word that comes to mind.

Dead, however--

His throat constricts and Carson does his best not to think it. He’s still in control. Unless he can confirm otherwise, he can salvage this. Billy’s been thrown through the windshield, Carson’s wrecked the car and the mission and maybe his team, but maybe he can fix this.

As long as Billy’s alive.

Fingers shaking, Carson holds his breath but it does nothing to still the frantic pounding of his heart. It threatens to deafen him, and he’s not Casey Malick. He can’t control his body, but he’s still too damned determined to give up so he ignores the blood, ignores all the gore, and presses two fingers into Billy’s throat.

At first, all he can feel is the slick blood as it coats his fingertips. His breathing falters and his chest constricts. He locks his jaw, and steels himself, and waits.

For a sign of hope.

For a chance that he hasn’t failed.

For...

A heartbeat.

It’s there, pulsating against his fingers in uneven, stuttered beats.

Billy’s alive.

He’s hurt and he may be dying, but he’s _alive._

Carson can work with that.

Looking down at Billy’s broken body, he _has_ to work with that.

-o-

Carson’s an acceptably proficient spy, but he’s really not a great medic. Michael’s the one with the brains for medicine (Mr. Pre-Med, himself) and Casey’s the one with the grit to actually tackle trauma with his bare hands and intuition.

Carson, meanwhile, tends to assume the worst and just thinks everyone is dying.

That’s counterproductive, of course, and right now, it hurts too much to think about. Because this is Billy, and the damn Scotsman is too impossible to die -- or at least, he should be. The kid’s mortality is suddenly blindingly obvious, and Carson can’t help but think how vulnerable Billy really is under all his flashy smiles and buoyant rhetoric.

As it is, though, Billy _may_ die, and Carson barely knows that the head bone’s connected to the neck bone, so anything resembling first aid is not his natural defense.

Instead, he pulls out his phone.

Michael’s number is the first one on the list. He presses _call_ and puts the phone to his ear, keeping a wary eye on Billy’s unmoving form.

Michael answers on the first ring. “Where the hell are you guys?”

“Nice to hear from you, too, sunshine,” Carson snaps.

“All our radars are going nuts, like we’ve been cut off--”

“Because we have,” Carson says tersely. “Sons of bitches made us.”

Michael swears. “You out, then?”

“Stole a car but we had some trouble shaking the pursuers,” Carson explains, glancing over his shoulder toward the still-smoking wreck up the way.

“Give me your location and Malick and I--”

Carson shakes his head, eyes back on Billy. “We need an ambulance,” he interrupts numbly.

“You hurt?” Michael asks, voice turning tense.

“Made a mess of the car,” Carson confirms. “I’ve got a concussion, but Billy...”

There’s a slight pause. “Bad?”

Carson looks at the flap of skin on Billy’s scalp, the blood that’s _everywhere..._ “I don’t even know where to begin,” he says. “One second the kid’s criticizing my driving, the next, he’s through the windshield--”

Michael’s breath catches just slightly over the line. “But he’s alive?”

“We need help, Michael,” Carson say plainly. Because sometimes control meant knowing when to delegate. And with Billy bleeding and unconscious, Carson would delegate this as much as he could. “Main highway outside of town, about three miles out. No signs of life from the smugglers; another car seems to have a civilian casualty.”

There’s movement in the background, and Michael is distracted. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. We’re on it. Help will be there soon.”

It’s a relief, Carson tells himself. It’s supposed to be a relief.

But on the ground, Billy still bleeds.

“Just...keep him alive, okay?” Michael asks.

Carson’s eyes burn -- the blood, he tells himself, it’s just the blood -- and his head throbs -- concussion, he knows -- and he can’t look away from Billy. “Yeah,” he agrees. “I’m working on it.”

When the call cuts off, Carson’s on his own again. He takes a breath, tries to calm himself.

It doesn’t work. 

Carson’s still concussed, and Billy’s still not moving, but Carson’s in control again. He’s the one giving the orders, and this time there’s no one to even question him.

It seems pretty cruel, actually. The universe’s idea of a horrible cosmic joke, giving Carson exactly what he asked for.

And with Billy dying right in front of him -- nothing that he needed.

-o-

It’s funny. No, it’s ironic. That’s what it is, as best Carson can remember. He’s not big into the literary terms, but Billy would call it ironic, bookish bastard that he is.

Because here Carson is, hands on the wheel, and nowhere to go. He’s already driven them right into disaster and now that he’s ready to hand this crap off to someone else, he’s stuck with it.

He’s just stuck.

On the side of the road with a concussion and a dying teammate.

Michael and Casey are the kind of dogged bastards that don’t know when to quit. Carson knows when to quit. In fact, Carson has nothing against quitting if things are stacked just right. He’ll risk his life when he has to, but if there’s a better alternative, he’ll always take it, hands down. That’s the thing about control. He likes to be able to stop driving when he chooses.

But now he’s stuck here, and control is his because Michael and Casey are still miles out, ambulances could be just as far, and Billy...

Well, Billy’s a mess.

Carson does what he can, which isn’t much. He’s passed Agency first aid courses by the skin of his teeth, so he knows to treat the bleeding and keep the victim still.

The second part is pretty easy since Billy shows no sign of waking. The first is a bit harder, and the lack of bandages is only half the story. He sacrifices his overshirt to the cause, but it’s stained with his own blood already. Still, he has no infectious diseases that he knows of and it’s not like he’s gotten lucky recently. 

And there’s a lot of blood.

It takes some work to rip his shirt in two -- the jerking motion makes his head swim so that he almost passes out -- and when he’s done, he realizes he’s done such a pisspoor job that one half is gigantic and the other is almost nothing more than a scrap.

It’s better than nothing, he figures, but when he looks at Billy’s broken form, he’s not so sure about that. Two bandages; countless wounds. It seems stupid, but he almost passed out getting this far, and if the kid dies he wants to at least look like he made an effort.

He stiffens. The kid’s not dying, though. The kid can’t die.

It’s a shaky resolve but he takes the bigger piece and picks the gash on Billy’s side. It’s hard to determine which wound is most serious, but that one certainly looks gruesome, so covering it at the very least will minimize how much Carson has to look at the gore. He lays the soiled cloth on top and hesitates awkwardly. Making a face, he spreads his fingers and presses down.

He can feel the blood welling up immediately, but Billy makes no sign of protest. All the times he’s wanted the kid to shut the hell up and now he’d give anything just to hear him make some inane quip.

This is progress, though, Carson tells himself, looking briefly at Billy’s bloodied face. It’s starting to swell, and his nose looks downright grotesque even as Billy’s breathing starts to become audible.

Carson looks away. He knows it’s bad. He doesn’t need to keep looking to remind himself. 

He looks instead at the other scrap of cloth and realizes that with both hands pressed along the jagged wound in Billy’s side, he has no way of applying the second bandage. For a second, he’s not sure what to do. He can feel Billy’s blood against his hands -- so holding here is important. But there’s so many other wounds -- the head lac, scraps on the arms and legs -- what if he’s neglecting something important?

Hell, what if all this pressure is making things worse? What if he’s exacerbating some internal trauma and he doesn’t know it? What if he’s made the wrong choice?

What if he kills Billy while trying to save him?

What if Billy actually dies, on the side of the road, going through the windshield because Carson can’t drive worth crap and picked a car without seat belts? What if Carson’s control screwed this all up? 

It’s slipping away from him, and Carson’s chest feels tight. His vision is dimming, and he’s vaguely aware that he may in fact be hyperventilating.

Perfect. He’s losing control.

He’s losing control right when he needs to keep it; not that his control is doing any good, so maybe this is for the best...

The logic is getting him nowhere, and he squeezes his eyes shut, breathing through his nose for a moment. He doesn’t know how to do this. He doesn’t even want to do this anymore. He should have just given Billy the damn wheel and then this wouldn’t be his responsibility.

This wouldn’t be his fault.

He opens his eyes, looking at Billy again. The kid is breathing noisily now, his chest visibly rising and falling with effort. He’s trembling beneath Carson’s touch, face going gray under the blood.

It’s getting away from him, all of it. But Carson doesn’t move; Carson doesn’t let go. He’ll hold on to the end.

No matter what.

-o-

Carson’s not sure how long he sits there. His feet have gone numb and his arms are aching. Sweat is smearing with the blood down the side of his face so that he pretty much can’t see at all.

That’s okay, though. There’s nothing much to look at. He knows Billy’s still breathing by the sound of his grating breaths and he knows Billy’s still dying with the blood coating his hands.

That’s okay, he tells himself, even if it’s a lie. Nothing’s okay. Absolutely _nothing is okay._

There’s nothing he can do about it, though.

There’s nothing he can do at all.

Just hold on.

Hold on.

He doesn’t hear the sirens and he doesn’t see the flashing lights, but someone touches him on the shoulder and he almost flails. He doesn’t have the energy, though, and when he blinks up to see the medic, all the fight leaves him.

Someone pulls him away, and Carson doesn’t fight. He’s not in control anymore, not as the medic lies him out on the side of the road. Carson’s not in control as the man shines a light in his eyes and starts talking to him. He can hear the words but none of it makes any sense, and he rolls his head to the side to look at Billy--

There’s only blood, though.

The medic probes his head, and Carson hisses in pain. He tries to see Billy one more time, but it doesn’t work.

Nothing works.

He’s not in control anymore.

As Carson closes his eyes and succumbs to unconsciousness, he wonders if he ever was.

-o-

 

Carson doesn’t have many super powers as a spy, but if there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s sleeping. He always sort of thought that was normal, until he joined the ODS. Malick is some kind of super freak who apparently doesn’t need to sleep when he puts his mind to it. He’s seen Casey go three days without even getting tired. Michael probably needs the sleep, but his mind is always so busy that he never seems to get enough. He’s not sure about Billy -- the kid’s still too new to know his sleeping habits -- but Carson’s hard pressed to believe Billy will be able to compete with him on the sleeping front.

Because Carson’s a good sleeper. He can sleep anywhere, any time. He can catch five minute cat naps in the office without anyone knowing. He’s slept in storage rooms and he’s even managed to sleep in bathroom stalls sitting up. He can sleep in seedy hotels and luxury suites. He can sleep with the lights on and on busy trains. He falls asleep hard and he falls asleep fast.

Carson’s just a damn good sleeper. When given the chance, that’s just what he does.

He sleeps.

And sleeps.

And...

He opens his eyes, startling awake. For a moment, bright lights blind him. He sucks in a breath and tries to sit up, and immediately regrets it. His head starts to throb, and he falls back against the bed with a groan.

“I had thought the odds were against it, but apparently you have a brain.”

The clipped dry voice is unmistakable. Carson scowls, but keeps his eyes shut. “It’s called sympathy, Malick,” he hisses. He opens his eyes to slits, turning his head just slightly to see his teammates. “Something you’re supposed to have for your fellow spy.”

“I’m a tourist,” Casey reminds him with a lofty shrug. “You’re an idiot investor who crashed a stolen car.”

Carson winces, this time not from the clear and effusive physical pain. “Man, I’d forgotten about that.”

Casey is unapologetic. “Wishful thinking,” he says. “Though, if it makes you feel any better, your driving was skilled enough that you were the only one to survive that wreck.”

It’s almost a compliment, so Carson’s about to take it at that, but then he remembers. His eyes open and he jolts a bit. “Billy?”

Casey realizes his oversight. “I meant, you and the kid,” he clarifies. “I saw the crash; the car was totaled. So I’m not sure if it really was skill, but like you said, it’s called sympathy.”

Carson tries to glare. It hurts. “You’re all heart, Malick,” he mutters. Then, he finds himself hesitating. “So the kid. He’s...still alive?”

At the question, Casey’s face darkens. Malick isn’t one to show unnecessary emotion, but everyone has chinks in their armor. Casey likes control more than Carson does, and when the balance of life and death is slipping away from him, he handles it poorly.

To say the least.

The fact that he mostly retains his composure is a good sign.

“He’s alive,” Casey reports, the traces of humor gone now. “Michael’s been with him, so I don’t know much.”

Carson gives him a look. “But you know something.”

Casey purses his lips. “I know that he was unresponsive and hypovolemic when they finally got him here. Head trauma, orthopedic trauma, internal damage -- you name it, the kid’s got it. I know we give him crap about his pretty face, but you didn’t have to go and mess it up to prove some kind of point.”

Carson’s stomach churns, and he curses beneath his breath. “You think I wanted this?” he snaps. “Hell, Malick. I spent the whole damn mission trying to keep that kid out of trouble. He’s always poking his nose into things, coming up with ideas. I swear, he’s got a penchant to get killed.”

“A martyr complex, no doubt,” Casey agrees with a disapproving shake of his head. “The dark flip side of the God complex the rest of us share. All the confidence and ability but with almost none of the inherent self preservation. He’s got something to prove, and he thinks risking his life for the cause will do that.”

He’s right. Michael’s the psychological one, but Casey’s got enough common sense to get the job done. And it makes sense, really. Billy’s an MI6 reject; having something to prove is sort of part and parcel of where he’s at right now.

So he has to take the risks. He has to boast about his credentials. He has to offer advice. Because he’s already been kicked out of one country, and for all his bluster and bravado, he’s just a kid. Not a rookie, and that’s the whole problem. He wants to belong; he wants to be accepted.

And Carson essentially chucked him through a windshield.

Sighing, Carson falls deeper into the pillows. “So is he going to make it?” he asks, not sure if he really wants the answer. Because he can still see the blood, still see the flap of skin on Billy’s scalp...

Casey shrugs. “Don’t know,” he says. “I’ve been stuck here at your bedside for the last few hours. But if you want, I could go find out...”

Carson snorts. “If I want?”

Casey shrugs. “I figured I’d let you feel like it was your idea.”

Carson waves his hand. “Go!”

Casey gets up. “And since you didn’t ask, I’ll tell you anyway,” he says. “You’re fine. Concussion is bad, but nothing that won’t heal. Everything else is just bruises and sprains.”

Funny, Carson almost forgot about all that. He’s never had anything resembling a martyr complex, but going for all the control hasn’t done much for him in the end. Carson just stares back at Casey. “Just make sure the kid’s okay.”

“Well, the plan is for _both_ of you to be okay,” Casey points out.

Carson finds himself smirking bitterly. “We can plan a lot of things,” he says. “For all the good it does us.”

Casey makes a face. “Don’t go losing your complex on me over this,” he says.

Carson rolls his eyes. “Just go!”

With that, Casey leaves, and Carson takes a moment to just lie there. He thinks a little about the accident; he thinks a little about his injuries. He thinks a little about Billy, lying broken in the ditch.

He thinks about control.

He thinks about giving up the wheel.

He thinks about how that scares him, still. But lying here, helpless, scares him even more.

-o-

If there’s any place that makes him feel out of control, it’s the hospital. Carson’s come to terms with terrorists and smugglers and generally bad people, but doctors and nurses scare the crap out of him. Bad guys just try to kill you; doctors control every aspect of your existence, tell you when to pee and how to eat and when to wake up and then, when that’s not enough, they can drug you into oblivion -- all in the name of saving your life.

All in all, Carson would take terrorists any day. At least they call torture what it is. The sadistic doctors at the hospital act like they’re doing him a favor while they torment him.

Casey disappears, and he takes a while to come back. Carson doesn’t want to think about how this could be a good or bad thing. At least, he thinks it means the kid’s probably not dead yet. Casey wouldn’t postpone telling him that.

But that doesn’t mean things are good. There are a lot of degrees of being not dead, and since the last time he saw Billy was when the kid was bleeding to death and limp, Carson is inclined to think Collins is still fighting for his life somewhere. After all, if the kid was just fine, Casey would be back soon enough to tell him that, too.

As it is, Carson has to sit there. He tries to sleep -- it is his superpower after all -- but even that eludes him. He’s restless; he’s _worried._

Damn it.

So much for control.

After about an hour, Carson’s about ready to try the call button just to see what happens when the door finally opens. He sits up a bit, ready to see Casey, and he’s more than a little surprised when Michael comes in.

Their fearless leader doesn’t look so fearless; he just looks tired. His eyes are rimmed with dark circles, and there’s stubble on his chin. He doesn’t smile, but he offers a sympathetic look as he approaches. “You look like you went a couple of rounds in the ring,” he comments.

Carson makes a face. “Yeah. With a speeding truck,” he mutters. “What did you expect?”

Michael lingers awkwardly by the bed, smirking a little. “Glad to see that the knock to your head hasn’t impeded your sense of humor.”

It’s small talk; it’s banter. It could be a comfort, but knowing Michael it’s more deflection than anything. Carson’s too tired and way too sore to play that game. “How’s Billy?”

Michael is unsurprised by the straightforward question. He shrugs one shoulder without missing a beat. “Surgery.”

Carson’s not sure what he was expecting, but that still takes him by surprise. “How long have we been here?”

This time, Michael sighs wearily. “Almost six hours,” he says. “You slept for the first five.”

Carson is indignant. “Six hours?” he says. “And Billy’s _still_ in surgery?”

Michael can only nod. “The damage was pretty extensive,” he says. “The translator wasn’t that great, but I think they had to do some work on his chest and his abdomen. Plus he needs some work on his arm and they were going to bring in a plastic surgeon to, um...reattach his scalp. Last update I heard they were down to the nitty gritty. He’ll be out soon.”

Carson winces, his stomach churning painfully. Even with the hopeful note at the end, that’s not a great list. He tries to think about Billy, cut open on an operating table, a tube shoved down his throat with machines monitoring his every life sign. He knows it’s better than being twisted and mangled on the side of the road, but it doesn’t feel like that.

Furrowing his brow, the guilt is almost numbing. He shakes his head. “It was my fault,” he announces, a little suddenly. It’s not really his thing -- taking the blame. Lots of things are his fault, and he’s owned up to very little. But...he has to. Before he goes stark raving mad. He looks at Michael helplessly. “I was driving; I crashed the car.”

Michael raises his eyebrows. “It’s called an accident for a reason,” he says.

Carson shakes his head, because he can’t let it go now. “I thought I had it under control,” he admits. “I was almost home free and I never even saw the other car.”

It’s humbling; it’s embarrassing. Carson’s cheeks burn, and his eyes sting inexplicably.

Michael’s face is impassive for a moment, but then he takes a breath. “We make a lot of choices in the field that we can’t control.”

“But we’re supposed to, aren’t we?” Carson snaps back. “I mean, Billy’s always yammering away about how I should trust him, let him do something, and I always think that I can’t take that risk so then I take my own and _this_ happens.” He gestures to his own hospital bed. “If I’d just let the kid drive...”

“Then who knows,” Michael says. “Maybe you wouldn’t have crashed; maybe you would have crashed worse.”

“So you’re saying not to trust him?” Carson asks.

Michael rolls his eyes. “No, I’m saying control is a limited thing. We can only control our own actions. The rest of the world is sort of beyond our reach.”

Carson frowns. “That doesn’t sound like a God complex,” he mutters.

“Well, I’m a deist at best,” Michael quips.

“I’m serious.”

“And so am I,” Michael says. He stops, lets out a breath and his shoulders fall. “Look, I control what I can but I understand that I can’t do it alone. We’re a team. I have to trust you guys sometimes to get things done.”

“Well, I sure did a bang up job,” Carson says, sulking.

“You’re alive, and so is Billy,” Michael says. “I still trust you.”

Carson wants to believe him. It’s sort of pathetic how ripe he is for comfort right now; maybe it’s the concussion. “And it’s that easy?”

Michael laughs. “I wouldn’t call it _easy,_ ” he says. “But otherwise we’d get nothing done.”

Trust. So says the paranoid bastard with a God complex. It’s actually a little infuriating for some reason, even though Carson’s probably known it all along. It’s just that Carson’s a spy; Carson likes control. And when he’s faced with how little he actually has, it’s a little frustrating to think that no one really blames him for it. That means control has always been a fallacy. That means all of his pissing and moaning and posturing is just that -- pissing and moaning and posturing.

“So, let me get this straight,” Carson says. “You would have let Billy drive?”

Michael’s face screws up in nothing short of abject terror. “Are you kidding me?” he asks. “The kid can’t sit still for a second. There’s no way I’d trust him behind the wheel.”

“What about trust?”

“What about common sense,” Michael says. “Someday we’ll let Collins drive. Just...not yet.”

“So you prefer me behind the wheel?” Carson asks uncertainly.

Michael chuckles. “After this mission, I might rethink it.”

Carson sulks.

Michael’s face falls, just a little, the confident guise slipping. “You know better, though,” he says. He hesitates. “I’m glad you’re going to be okay.”

“And Collins?” Carson asks.

“He’ll pull through,” Michael says.

“You sure?” Carson asks, trying not to sound as vulnerable as he feels.

Michael shrugs. “No,” he says. “But I may not trust him to drive just yet, but I sure as hell think he’s got what it takes to survive. No matter what. And I’ll trust that with everything I have.”

-o-

And then, Carson sleeps.

Maybe Michael has assuaged his guilt just enough; maybe the meds finally kicked in. Maybe he just finally let himself acknowledge that he’d gotten his brain rattled around his head and passed out. Any way it went, Carson sleeps.

It’s not exactly a sound sleep, but beggars can’t be choosers about this kind of thing. Besides, it’s still mostly on his terms, and this time when he wakes up, he knows where he is and what’s going on, so when he sees Casey staring at him, it’s not a surprise.

“Good,” Casey says. “I didn’t want to do the bedside vigil thing. They’re awkward.”

Carson tries to wet his lips, making a face. “The feeling’s mutual,” he says.

“So you think you feel up to a field trip?”

Carson eyes him skeptically. “I thought I had a bad concussion.”

“Well, I didn’t plan on hitting you,” Casey returns.

Carson sighs.

“Fine,” Casey says, holding his hands up. “I just thought you might like to see Billy.”

Carson perks up at that. “He’s awake?”

“He just got out of extensive surgery and he’s being kept alive by machines,” Casey tells him snidely. “So no, he’s not awake. But he is alive, and they’re letting us in one at a time--”

Carson is already sitting up, trying to swing his legs over the side of the bed. “Let’s go.”

Casey moves closer with a scowl. “Whoa, there,” he says. “Let me at least get a wheelchair--”

It’s Carson’s turn to scowl. “I’m _fine,_ ” he says, pushing to his feet. He wavers precariously, vision dimming and he falls back down on his ass. 

Casey is watching him. “You were saying?”

Carson glares. “Just go get the damn wheelchair.”

Because Carson likes both hands on the wheel, but maybe it’s time to trust his team on this one.

-o-

It seems a little humiliating being pushed around in a wheelchair, but Carson has to admit, it’s probably a good thing. He’s feeling lightheaded and breathless by the time they arrive, and he’s the one sitting down. Which is another good thing since his ass is hanging out, which is not just awkward but uncomfortable as hell, too.

When they get there, Carson’s so exhausted that he doesn’t have time to think about what he’s about to see until Casey pushes him through and says he’ll be back in five minutes before the nurses catch on to the fact that Carson probably shouldn’t be out of bed. Casey’s gone before Carson can reply, and then he realizes he’s sitting right next to Billy.

It’s a sort of startling revelation. Usually Billy can’t sit still or shut up more than five seconds; his presence is impossible to overlook. In the office, he fidgets. In meetings, he doodles. He’s always muttering songs or tapping his foot or doing _something._

Here, he’s just lying there. Laid out on the hospital bed, he looks like any other poor schmuck, pale and limp and lifeless. His chest is rising and falling, and the monitor beeps reassuringly, but there’s nothing _Billy_ about him.

His mouth is obscured by the taped down ventilator tube and his head is wrapped with a bulky bandage, half covering his left eye. His arm is casted and his torso is wrapped and bandaged. He’s wearing a generic hospital gown and the thin blanket is pulled to his waist, leaving his arms exposed with two IVs. There’s a central line stringing from under his gown, and the electrodes are so plentiful that they’re impossible to count.

It’s a bit overwhelming.

Carson swallows and looks at Billy’s unmoving features again. Okay, it’s a _lot_ overwhelming. Carson’s a spy; he likes control, and here’s Billy, not in control of _anything._ It’s not just that he can’t pick a mission or develop an asset. It’s not even that he can’t drive or that he’s perpetually the rookie.

The kid can’t even _breathe_ on his own. There are monitors gauging his ever vital statistic and Carson’s pretty sure they’ve got Collins peeing in a bag. His heart rate is checked and monitored, because the kid can’t be trusted to do it for himself.

Because Carson crashed the damn car and Billy went through the windshield. Because missions go wrong and Carson can’t give up the wheel.

He swears. “I’m sorry, kid,” he says, letting out a shaky breath. “I thought I could do it better than this.”

And that’s the thing. He really did think. It wasn’t just that he wanted to screw Collins over. Sure, Billy’s sort of annoying but he’s a teammate, and he’s not a bad kid. He’s not even a terrible spy. Carson thought he could handle it. Carson _thought_ he was in control.

Maybe that’s what Michael’s talking about. They all have their things. Casey can fight; Michael can plan. Carson can be a voice of reason in a sea of total chaos.

Even sons of bitches like Higgins can play bureaucrat. Women like Fay can be a stabilizing factor. Hell, even doctors can fix. They can all do things Carson can’t do, and that’s why they matter.

Looking at Billy, he’s not really sure what the kid can do yet, but he’s starting to think it may be time to find out.

With a shaky breath, Carson steels himself, keeping his gaze on Billy. “Next time,” he promises with all the strength he can muster. “Next time we’ll do better because we’ll do it together, okay?”

Billy doesn’t respond; doesn’t even flicker. He’s not broken and bleeding anymore, but that hardly makes it any easier.

Carson works his jaw, and he’s completely not going to cry. “But you need to get better first,” he says, voice cracking just a little. “So, get the hell better, will you?”

Billy doesn’t reply, of course, but the monitor keeps beeping and his chest keeps rising, and after everything, Carson thinks that’s probably enough.

-o-

Carson likes to think of himself as fairly adaptable. Spies have to be, after all, and he’s learned to go with the flow in order to survive. He can be who he needs to be, mostly because he doesn’t hold to anything so hard that he can’t live without it. That’s how he’s survived undercover work and long term missions and shirting teams within the Agency.

But damn it all if it isn’t hard in the hospital.

It doesn’t help that playing the model patient doesn’t get him very far. Sure, he might shave a few days off his release date if he can charm the nurses, but he’s still stuck in this miserable country as long as Billy’s laid up. And he doesn’t speak the language and smiling too much makes his head hurt. He tells himself that’s the concussion and doesn’t have the energy to argue with himself.

Besides all that, his concussion is hell. He’s had his bell rung more than once before, but this one has done a number on him. He still gets random bouts of vertigo and he almost passes out once for no apparent reason at all. He doesn’t decline the good meds and not even sleep seems to nip the persistent ache in the bud. 

All that sounds like a lot, but it still leaves him with copious amounts of time to do nothing. There’s nothing on TV, and all the magazines are in some foreign language Carson can’t hope to read. 

So Carson waits.

And waits.

And _waits._

Billy still hasn’t woken up yet. He’s improving, and he’s not in a coma anymore, but he’s still heavily medicated and on the critical list. The doctors are optimistic as best Michael can tell, but the kid still looks like hell. They’re going to be there for a while.

That’s not exactly good news, and Carson finds the waiting even more interminable.

Michael and Casey take turns with him and sometimes they both crash with him for lunch, but the small talk is horrible. After three days they’re about ready to kill each other, they’re all so damn restless. Carson is struggling to find new things to bitch about, and so when he finally takes to the smell of the detergent used to starch the sheets, Michael rolls his eyes.

“You’re redirecting,” he says.

Carson makes a face. “Have you smelled these things?”

“We can all smell them, moron,” Casey mutters. “That doesn’t change the fact that Michael’s right.”

Carson sighs with as much energy as he can muster. “Well, geniuses, what am I redirecting then?”

“Concern,” Michael says.

“Worry,” Casey adds.

“General uncertainty,” Michael clarifies.

Carson scoffs. “You’re full of crap.”

Michael raises an eyebrow. “You still feel responsible.”

Carson lowers his eyebrows. “You going to psychoanalyze me?”

“Nothing better to do,” Casey says with a shrug.

“There’s plenty better to do,” Carson snipes. “Like taking a long walk off a short pier.”

“And then you’d have another thing to feel guilty about,” Casey says, entirely nonplussed.

Carson feels his frustration start to boil. “Well, excuse me,” he says. “Neither of you were there. You didn’t see the kid, lying there all bloody.”

“I saw him after surgery,” Michael says.

“And I’ve done nothing but watch him breathe for the last three days,” Casey says.

“I think we know,” Michael returns.

Carson feels like sulking; it’s somewhat inexplicable, but he thinks he’s within his rights. Being concussed and laid up and all. “Well, fine then,” he says dourly. “At least you all can leave.”

“The doctor thinks you’ll be out of here in a few days,” Michael tell him.

Scoffing, Carson sits back. “Gee, a few more days of _this._ ”

“It could be worse,” Casey says. “But if you want, I’ll clock you one. That should add a few more days at least to your stay.”

“Gee, thanks, Malick,” Carson mutters. 

“We’re all doing the best we can,” Michael says.

“Are we?” Carson asks, indignation flaring. “We’re all sitting here like idiots, waiting for something to happen. We’re completely useless and you’re both pretty crappy company when you get right down to it.”

“Well, you’re not exactly Mr. Personality,” Michael points out.

“And you’re redirecting,” Casey adds.

Carson groans. “You know what? We are dysfunctional,” he concludes, looking at his teammates in total dismay. “Each of us. Especially together.”

“We’ve always gotten the job done,” Michael says.

“I don’t see how,” Carson says.

“We all have our part,” Michael says. “I’ve told you that.”

“Right, so Casey’s the heartless bastard and Michael’s the cold-hearted son of a bitch,” Carson quips.

“And you’re the whiny jackass,” Michael agrees.

“I was going to say the interminable complainer,” Casey says with an easy shrug.

Carson wants to be angry. For a moment he is.

But then, it’s actually kind of funny.

The anger builds and then releases with a chuckle. “Yeah,” he agrees, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. “I guess it’s true.”

Michael’s face softens with a smile. “We are a pretty singular team. Hard to believe it works.”

Casey pauses, cocking his head. “So what does that make Collins?” he asks. “When he’s not busy being comatose, anyway.”

“The optimist,” Michael says.

“I was thinking the chatterbox,” Casey says. 

Carson just shakes his head, because he’s sort of figured this out. Spending all that time with Collins, listening to the kid talk his ear off. He’d been so busy being annoyed by the words that he hadn’t taken the time to actually _listen._ Now that the kid was silent, Carson’s finally starting to see it. He’s starting to understand.

“Nah,” he says. “Billy’s the charmer.”

Because Billy could charm colleagues and he could talk his way undercover. He could flirt and he could make friends and he was nothing like the rest of them, which is why he fits in just right.

Casey considers it, then shrugs in tacit agreement.

Michael nods. “The charmer,” he says. “I guess it’s about time we had one of those.”

-o-

Billy’s the charmer, which apparently means he can work on his own schedule. It probably shouldn’t be a surprise -- Billy’s never been on time for anything since joining the CIA -- but Carson still finds it somewhat frustrating. He’s not OCD about timeliness like Michael is, but he generally likes things to go accordingly to plan. The sooner he can finish a job, after all, the sooner he can get the hell out.

Billy, however, does things however he wants, and everyone else just has to wait around for him. Carson might resent him for this, but since the kid is still recovering from life threatening injuries incurred by Carson’s lapses, he supposes he needs to cut Collins a bit of slack.

Still. Billy’s pushing it.

It takes him several more days for the kid to start waking up. Even then, it takes another couple before he’s actually coherent enough to know what’s going on. By that time, Carson’s been released and he’s able to walk around on his own without the wheelchair. He doesn’t bother to tell anyone that standing still makes his head spin; there are bigger things to worry about.

Like Billy.

The doctors are pretty upbeat at this point. All neurological scans suggest that there is no permanent damage. The infection is under control, and all the wounds are healing as well as can be expected. The sutures on his scalp are showing good signs of progress, and the plastic surgeon is pretty sure that Billy’s hair will cover any lingering scars.

Carson generally takes the good news in life -- there’s so much bad that it seems silly to contradict the good. But he finds himself edgy and restless, and he downright demands a private turn with Billy to make this all just _end._

Michael and Casey don’t argue, which leaves Carson feeling pretty smug until he gets there.

Billy looks better. That’s the good news. Without all the equipment, Billy actually looks like a person again, albeit bruised and scarred and bandaged. Carson’s gotten pretty used to all that now, and he’s come to reconcile the garish nature of Billy’s wounds with the optimistic prognosis from the doctors. After all, Carson can still remember the way Billy looked on the side of the road.

But then Billy’s looking right at him.

Smiling.

And Carson wants to bolt.

It’s probably a pretty stupid reaction -- a smiling teammate is a _good thing_ \-- but Billy looks so eager, so damn _happy_ to see him that it’s almost too much.

Because this is still Carson’s fault.

Which is, of course, why he has to stay.

With a forced smile, he makes his way to Billy’s side.

Billy’s grin widens. “Ah,” he says. His voice is strained and weak, but the inflection is still there. “You are quite the sight for sore eyes.”

Carson manages a smirk, though it’s a pretty weak effort. “I could say the same for you,” he says, nodding toward Billy. “You gave us a scare.”

Billy shifts a little, making a small face of discomfort. “So I’m told,” he says. Then the glint in his eye brightens. “Nothing like a bit of drama, though, eh? Can’t have the job getting dull.”

That’s so appropriately _Billy_ that Carson almost wants to laugh. But he can still remember seeing Billy on the ground, and excitement has always been pretty low on his list of priorities. “If that’s your way of spicing things up, then we need to talk.”

Billy blushes. “Well, truth be told, it’s not my personal choice,” he says. His eyes flick to the equipment still around him. “This whole lot is a bit more than I bargained for.”

Carson doesn’t have the heart to tell Billy how much worse it was. He hardly has the heart to tell Billy anything. But that is why he’s here, after all. He just doesn’t know how to say it. Or anything for that matter. All the words are stuck in his throat and he stares at the rail on Billy’s bed stupidly.

“Yeah,” he finally says, rubbing absently at the bandage still covering the stitches on his head. “About that...”

Billy flits a hand through the air. “It was an accident, Carson,” he says preemptively, too keenly aware of Carson’s guilt. “I’ve learned the hard way that the best you can do is take the hits and keep on rolling, as it were. Though this is my first time rolling right through a windshield.” He winces. “Something I’d rather not repeat.”

He really is a charmer. It’s such an eloquent diffusion, that Carson’s almost inclined to leave it at that. Billy’s giving him an out, after all. A chance to end this conversation and never talk about it again. And there’s no doubt how appealing that is.

Normally, Carson’s all about the easy way out.

But not this time.

He gathers a breath and purses his lips. “I’m sorry,” he says, the words hard and flat.

Billy raises his eyebrows. “Contrition?” he asks. “It must have been worse than I thought.”

Worse doesn’t hardly cover it, but Carson’s not going there. He shakes his head. “I thought I had it under control back there,” he says. “Right up until we crashed and you got thrown through the windshield.”

Billy looks a little vexed by this, like he’s not sure what to say. It occurs to Carson that he was hoping Carson would take the easy out, too.

Carson sighs. “I just -- we were pretty much screwed,” he says with a helpless shrug. “I made the only decisions I could.”

Billy offers a small smile. “Aye,” he says. “Though I dare say not the only decisions there were.”

Carson doesn’t do apologies often, so to have Billy be contrary about it is actually sort of unnerving. And annoying. He glares. “Are you actually still going to say you could have done better?”

Billy cringes, and he looks duly chagrined. “No,” he says. “I mean, not exactly. Look, I know you did the best you could. There was no way to see the other car come -- no matter who was behind the wheel. But my point was that I do have something to offer this team.” He trails off, looking down at his bed-ridden body. “At least, I did.”

Carson’s chest twinges, and his shoulders slouch. “Hey,” he chides. “You still do. A little PT and you’ll be back on your feet. Maybe not right away, but you’ll get there.”

Billy chortles hoarsely. “Carson Simms, playing the optimist,” he says. “Now I’ve seen everything.”

“Yeah, well, don’t get used to it,” Carson says sourly. “This is just until you’re back in full form.”

Billy looks surprised again. “Are you saying my ability to see on the bright side may actually be an asset?”

“I’m saying it may be a necessary balance to the non stop negativity from the rest of us,” Carson concedes. “You said you had something to offer the team, and that’s it.”

At that, Billy is disappointed. “Well, I was hoping my years of service would count for more than that.”

Carson’s not soft. Not even close. He hasn’t made it through this many years on the job by having a bleeding heart. He’s never been Casey Malick, that’s for sure, but he’s often too concerned with fulfilling his own needs to worry much about the emotional grievances of others.

But Carson did just put this kid through a windshield and he’s spent so much time watching the kid sleep, that he can’t write off Billy’s words just yet, no matter how much he’d like to.

Besides, Carson knows now it doesn’t work. He can ignore Billy, he can mock Billy, he can tell Billy to shut the hell up, but the fact is, the only way Collins stops talking is if you put him through a windshield. All things considered, Carson has to take the talking over the silence.

Even if part of him hates it.

He sighs. “You just have to give it time,” he cajoles, trying to his best to sound supportive.

Billy looks skeptical.

Carson sighs again. “I’m just saying you’re still the new guy to us,” he says, gesturing a bit. “We can trust our experiences because we’ve had it together. You -- all we’ve got is your word so far, buddy. It’ll get better, one mission at a time.”

Billy shrugs feebly. “What did you learn from this mission that improves my odds?”

Carson grunts. Carson learned a lot of things from this mission, most of which he’d love to forget. If he’s going to overlook stupid things like the value of seatbelts and the various ways the human body can bleed, he’ll have to focus on the less graphic lessons.

Like how he can control a car but not the mission.

Like how his very best may not always be enough.

Like how each of them bring their own thing to the team, and maybe Carson’s ready to see if someone else can drive for once.

“Well, for starters, I’m thinking next time, you can take the wheel,” he says begrudgingly.

Billy looks genuinely surprised. “I must have hit my head harder than I thought.”

Carson rolls his eyes. “You say you can do it, so who knows,” he says. “Besides, it’s not like I’m doing such a great job these days.”

“What happened -- I told you -- you couldn’t have--”

Carson holds up his hand. “Anyway, kid, it’ll be a hell of a lot quieter if I let you have your way on this one,” he says. “It’s a wonder I didn’t crash sooner with you yapping in my ear the whole time.”

He adds the insult to sharpen the offer, but Billy still lights up like a kid on Christmas morning. “You won’t regret it, either!” he enthuses, his voice picking up a notch even if it still sounds horribly strained. “I reckon I might be a bit rusty, but this sort of thing is like riding a bike. Another skill which I am well practiced with, just so you know. Although I’m also particularly gifted with motorbikes, now that I think about it--”

Carson rolls his eyes. “Don’t make me regret this, kid.”

“Oh, you won’t,” Billy promises. “One time with me behind the wheel, and you’ll never go back. Not with my expert turns and precision handling.”

It’s already more than Carson wants to hear, and the more Billy talks, the less Carson believes any of it. It’s not an easy thing -- Carson is willing to give up a little control, after all, but not all of it -- yet, he reminds himself how he got here. He remembers the accident he didn’t see coming; the broken windshield that’s still his fault; Billy’s limp body on the ground.

This is better, like this. With Billy smiling and talking and generally not being dead. It’s not control, but it’s still the better outcome. It may not always be easy, but they might make a good team yet.

Time will tell, anyway. And Carson is just along for the ride while they all find out.


End file.
